Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

  “Aw, come on, Dad, no reason to drag in Mom. . .”

  Chats with the CIA’s Chief Interrogator didn’t usually go my way. By usually, I meant never.

  Mom, happy to help, cracked her knuckles and got started. She ranted about the American Dream and the Red Menace for a while, then asked, “Don’t you realize marijuana is against the law? You’d be a criminal.”

  “What’s the crime? Who’s the victim?”

  “You may have a point, son. It is a ridiculous law. Law enforcement should concentrate on heroin, amphetamines, and prescription drug abuse.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Mom actually agreed with me on something. Then she said, “But the law is the law.”

  As if that made sense. I made a much more cogent point. “If standing up against injustice is against the law, we should all become outlaws.”

  When Mom paused to consider that, Dad jumped back in.

  “What a load of baloney. You need to look at the bigger picture, son. If you made the world a happier place, there’d peace.”

  “Exactly. All part of my plan.”

  “Some plan. Have you thought things through?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For instance, with no more war, what would the world’s Armed Forces do?”

  “I suppose they could help me grow more. . .”

  “And what about the defense contractors? And the arms dealers? What about corrupt politicians depending on corporate lobbyists for backdoor payoffs? Are we supposed to turn our back on them?”

  “They’ll just have to find more honorable ways to make a living. For instance, distributing all that pot.”

  Bottom line, Dad not only refused to finance my revolution, he suggested I get a summer job. “In the Army.” Talk about your buzzkillers.

  I protested that graduating college was a time for celebration, a time for traveling. The rat race could wait.

  “Dad, everyone I know is going somewhere. . .”

  “Not the commies.”

  “I don’t know the commies.”

  “No problem. Uncle Dick and I will be happy to arrange a trip to Vietnam.”

  For a man with no sense of humor, Dad said some crazy stuff. His thoughtful advice made up my mind for me. I had to get the hell out of there, breathe more open-minded air. A trip to Hawaii was exactly what I needed. To get some traveling money, I’d have to liquidate my valuable assets. Since I didn’t have any of those, I sold my stereo, my record collection, and the crummy Kamikaze 90 Deathcycle that kept trying to kill me but couldn’t go fast enough. Then I cleaned out my bank account. Seeing the balance, I sighed. How could I owe the bank money?

  I added up the vast sum I’d accumulated and groaned. A shitty motorbike, a used stereo, and a bunch of scratched records didn’t bring in a lot of cash. At least I had enough for a round-trip ticket. Since that would have meant not scoring an ounce of Afghani hash, I settled for a one-way. I had enough left over to upgrade my camping gear, buy a few aloha shirts at a thrift store, and, well, not much more. Good thing Lizardo already had a place for me to live and grow da kine. With his help, I’d hit the ground running and never look back. That was Plan A. Like the Buddha, I tried to keep life simple and didn’t complicate things with a Plan B.

  I was all set—except for one little problem: Lizardo’s phone had stopped working. Oh, and his coffee shack lacked a street address. So, two little problems. Actually, three, if you counted the cash situation. Sporting my new used silkie with the floating ukuleles, hula dancers, and palm trees, I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. A few days went by before Lizardo got in touch. By then I was feeling let down, flipping out, muttering grumpy things about him. I missed his call, but he left a message with Doc.

  I looked at the scrap of paper. “Lizardo got a new number, huh?”

  “Not exactly. He said it rings at the Watanabe Store. He goes by there every day and the Watanabes yell at him, let him know if someone called.”

  “That’s nice of them.”

  “Not really. They yell at him all the time. Just different stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s in Japanese, but he’s pretty sure it’s profane.”

  “I better give it a try.”

  I dialed the Watanabe Store. The angry Japanese man who answered yelled—something—and then hung up.

  “What’d he say?” asked Doc.

  “Who knows?”

  “You should have been polite.”

  “All I said was hello.”

  I tried again with the same result.

  “Guess you’re stuck here in California till Lizardo calls back.”

  “No way, Doc. I’m way too excited. If I don’t go now, I’ll end up in the Good Family law firm defending Nixon.”

  “Now that’s a scary thought.”

  “No kidding. I’ll just stay with Becky and Lisa in Waikiki. I can call him from there.”

  Becky and Lisa, who’d moved to Honolulu a few months earlier, were notorious party girls and always ready for a good time.

  “Becky and Lisa? Didn’t they move to Hawaii to get away from you?”

  “Heh heh. . .I hope they were just kidding.”

  After repeated calls, I finally annoyed Becky into inviting me. She seemed excited. “All right, damnit, but only for a couple days.”

  So, except for reservations, a wad of cash, and a welcome place to go, I was all set. I hadn’t been in many airports, but I had done a lot of tripping and I wasn’t concerned about the journey. Perhaps I should have been.

  _ _ _

  I stayed the night before my escape at Doc’s family home in Los Angeles. His mom cooked us breakfast and the moment she left for work, I pulled out my little tin film can and my trusty onyx hash pipe. With breakfast scarfed down, it was time for our traditional morning buzz. While we got high, I dialed Continental Airlines and found a flight.

  “Doc, there’s a flight at nine.”

  “That’s only forty-five minutes from now.”

  “Perfect, I hate waiting.”

  “Are there any seats?”

  “Seats? Aren’t those standard equipment?”

  “I meant vacant ones.”

  “Guess I’ll find out.”

  I wasn’t gonna let small details delay my trip. Back then, you could show up at the last second for a flight and go stand-by. Save a few bucks. No security checks. Not even identification.

  “Think we can make it?”

  “Sure, man, I happen to know the way.”

  “Thanks, Magellan. I meant, you know, on time.”

  “Um, doubtful.”

  “Let’s go anyway.” I jammed the film can and hash pipe in my pocket, grabbed my pack and guitar, and jumped into Doc’s bug for the speedy ride to the airport.

  Five minutes later, I asked, “How far is it?”

  “As the crow flies? Maybe ten miles.”

  I pointed at the stalled traffic on La Cienega. “And as the VW crawls?”

  “Well, that depends.”

  “We’ll never make it.”

  “Don’t worry, Mikey, I’ve got you covered.”

  Doc, zoned on the hash but used to it, swerved like a New York cabbie onto the empty sidewalk (thank God no one walks in L.A.) and made record time, getting me to the terminal at quarter till nine.

  “You better hurry,” he shouted, doing one of those cool Tokyo-drift skids right up to the terminal doors, scattering porters left and right.

  I zoomed into the terminal like a terrorist. No one looked twice. I raced up to the Continental desk, barged right to the front of the line like a bigwig. Or I would have if there was a line. Everyone else, obviously compulsive earlybirds, had already checked in. Good, I hated lines. A dexterous if chunky lady named Brenda relaxed behind the podium, painting her fingernails while gobbling pork rinds dipped in nacho cheese. Conscientious about her figure, she washed them down with Diet Coke. On the Muza
k system, faux-Beatles were singing Green Tangerine. Brenda paraphrased her favorite lyrics. “I know that what I eat, I am.”

  “Hi, Brenda. Can I still make the Honolulu flight?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “If you got here on time and I wasn’t on a self-mandated break. Wait a minute, how’d you know my name?”

  I pointed at her nametag. “Think you could sell me a ticket and then take your break?”

  She snorted at the absurd idea. “Theoretically, I suppose.” She stuck out her pudgy hand. “If I felt motivated enough.”

  I handed her ten bucks. “Here, buy some more snacks.”

  “I said if I felt motivated.”

  I handed her another ten.

  “Sure,” she said, pausing to admire her new nail color. “I could sell you a ticket, but my nails need to dry first.”

  She lit a cigarette to pass the time. Impatient, I grabbed her hands and blew like the north wind.

  “Can I get that ticket now?”

  “Take it easy. I got all this stuff to put away.”

  “Here, let me help,” I said, jamming the rest of the jumbo bag of pork rinds down her throat.

  Grateful, she burped out a thanks.

  Waving my hand in front of my face, I said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Let’s see. . .one-way stand-by to Honolulu. . .that’ll be eighty-nine dollars.”

  I waved good-bye to Ben Franklin.

  Handing me my ticket, Brenda said, “Here you go, Mr. Impatient.”

  “What about my change?”

  “You wanna make your flight or not?”

  Aggravated, in a hurry, and ripped off for eleven bucks, not counting the motivational bribes, I ran like O.J. in those old Avis ads—you know, before the cops framed him. You should have seen me go, not quite hurdling over children, losing bloody gloves that didn’t really fit, and battering wives (not mine, but someone’s) as I raced down the corridor. I only slowed down when I skidded around a corner and smashed into an enormous roadblock.

  A Bigfoot disguised as a Security Guard growled, “Hey, no running.”

  I replied from the floor. “Oof. . . Who’s running? By the way, I hope I didn’t hurt your knuckles with my broken face.”

  She laughed with compassion. It sounded like a cement grinder. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You mean my concussion?”

  “I mean the blood you’re dripping all over the place.”

  “Sorry about the blood, but I’m a philanthropist in a hurry. I’m on a mission to change the world.”

  “Before you change anything, hippie, I need to do a thorough weapons search.”

  “Weapons search?”

  “That’s right,” she said, showing off her handheld metal detector. “We’re tired of you longhaired freaks diverting our planes to Cuba.”

  The metal detector was a foot-long black cylinder with a peculiar-shaped tip. When she pushed a button, it started vibrating, rotating, and going back and forth like a jack-hammer. She pushed another button and sparks flew out. Then she put on some rubber gloves with sleeves up to the shoulders.

  “How thorough are we talking?”

  “Just bend over and spread ‘em so we can get the fun over with.”

  Fun?

  “Are you sure that’s a metal detector?”

  “Heh heh, among other things.”

  “Hey, be careful back there, it could get dangerous.”

  I got the feeling the zealous Bigfoot had overstepped her job’s guidelines. I went into defensive mode, and like an invisible ninja, a near-lethal fart lashed out.

  After some serious gagging, my would-be torturer gave me her appalled respect. “Oh my God, you are one nasty son of a bitch.”

  “I tried to warn you. Are we done here or do you want more?”

  She pulled a gun. “Now the front. And don’t try any funny stuff.”

  Even with a gun pointed at me, I felt safer. Until she waved the wand over my crotch and the metal detector let off a narc-like siren.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pointing at the noticeable bulge in my pants.

  “Not sure what you mean,” I lied.

  “I mean—this.” She lunged a meaty hand out, felt the hardness and asymmetry of the metal film can and the adjacent onyx pipe through my jeans. A look of confusion crossed her manly face. Also, depraved interest. “Wow, you do have a dangerous weapon.”

  “Better be careful, that damn thing has an itchy trigger finger.”

  “What do ya do? Work out or something?” She seemed intrigued, maybe a little turned on.

  “I’m a freak of nature,” I admitted, all humble, not wanting to seem conceited about getting caught with contraband.

  “So, you like big girls with a lot of facial hair?”

  Jesus. I had to think fast. “Actually, that’s a prosthesis. Lost the original ten inches in ‘Nam.”

  That backed her right off. “You better get a move on there, Stumpy.”

  Humiliated but unbusted, I sprinted the rest of the way to the boarding gate, only to come skidding to a halt, obviously too late. They’d closed the doors to the tarmac. Through the big windows, I could see the plane’s door shutting, the motorized stairways driving away.

  When the boarding-pass lady saw my beseeching look and the ten dollars in my hand, she sighed, rolled her eyes, and said with empathy, “Better make it twenty.”

  At this rate, I’d be broke before we landed.

  Extortion concluded, she called the flight deck. A minute later, the stairway drove back to the plane. As I sauntered like a celebrity across the tarmac, every passenger on the left side of the plane watched me through their window. I waved to my attentive fans. Most waved back, but only with one finger. Bemused flight attendants opened the big door for me and stuck out their hands. When I stiffed them, they also waved the abbreviated way. Raised with good manners, I took my time walking to my seat (in clean underwear in case we crashed) so as not to seem overeager. Also, because everyone tried to kick me. Lucky for me, my last-second penalty seat was all the way in the back row where the seats couldn’t recline and where I would suffer for five hours surrounded by a boisterous, chain-smoking Aussie rugby team who’d been drinking for fifteen hours straight. They passed the time singing fight songs and elbowing my ribs to make sure I was getting their jokes.

  As the wheels lifted, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d made the flight despite a late arrival, no reservations, and a bit of molestation by the scary Security Guard. Something only a seasoned expert could pull off on his first try. My adventure was barely under way and I’d already learned something important. Thanks to crazed hijackers diverting planes to Cuba, hippies had to be careful flying with drugs. Maybe I was overdoing the whole caution thing, but I waited until after the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign went off before heading to the bathroom to smoke some calming hash. Fifteen prudent minutes later, I stumbled out, feeling like an ace traveler. I saw nothing but blue water, blue sky, and puffy white clouds for five hours, but when the flight attendants in gas masks came down the aisles drenching passengers with a welcoming spray of Malathion, I knew we were close to paradise.

  Chapter 6

  Want A Ride?

  (Honolulu, Hawaii, 1971)

  The best thing to do when arriving in Hawaii is to land on a neighbor island. Back then, the only alternative to Honolulu was Hilo on the Big Island. Otherwise, you needed a commuter flight. With no Lizardo waiting to meet me in Kona, or any idea where he lived, I detoured to Waikiki where the sexy Becky and Lisa awaited my arrival with dread. But I was thrilled to be in Hawaii and I didn’t let any of that bother me. Not at first, anyway.

  Stepping off the plane, I took my first deep breath of hot, humid, and jet fuel-laced Hawaiian air. Then I coughed. Wasting no time, I broke into a sweat. As I entered the terminal, a gorgeous Polynesian girl wearing a grass skirt, coconut shell bra, and about twent
y leis, fell madly in love with me. The seductive island beauty put a lei around my neck, sang out, “Aloha,” and gave me a passionate kiss—well, a cursory peck on my sweaty cheek. Evidently, she didn’t want to make everyone else jealous. When I returned the love with an enticing bit of tongue action and clumsy groping, my playful new girlfriend kneed me in the nuts and said, “Next.”

  Loudspeakers played enchanting slack-key guitar music and a swarm of Hare Krishna devotees moved in close. Seeing my long hair and guitar and feeling my peaceful vibes, the cult went nuts, shaking tambourines and donation cans in my face. Guess they mistook me for George Harrison. I liked George’s benefit album for Bangladesh, but instead of shaving my head, putting on a robe, and acting crazy, I used my guitar to carve an escape route. I fled into the men’s room, washed off the Malathion of welcome, and changed into surf shorts and flip flops.

  After that, I stopped in a bookshop and picked up some required reading material: Hawaii by Michener, a camping guide to the islands, and a calendar. Specifically, the eye-catching Girls of Hawaii calendar. The extraordinary Leilani Lee (aka: Miss June) reassured me with her curves and exotic face: Yes, it really is Tuesday, June 15th. And just like that, I became a fanatic for knowing the correct date.

  I saw a group of fellow longhairs who’d been on the plane outside the terminal and gave them a practice shaka sign. My first, but I pulled it off like a local. Now I just needed to learn pidgin English. One of the hippies, an outgoing guy who introduced himself as Stan, had tucked his hair under an Avis ballcap, and somewhere along the way changed into a blood-stained Avis shirt. I thought my classic silkie with the surfboards, hibiscus flowers, and volcanoes even more appropriate for the islands, but to each his own.

  “Hey, man,” said Stan, “we’re grabbing a rent-a-car. Need a lift into Waikiki?”

  Except for the heat and humidity, Hawaii was cool. Girls you’d just met would give you a kiss before emasculating you. (A nice change from how they did it on the mainland.) Plus, friendly people like Stan wanted to help out total strangers. We walked towards the car return area. Apparently, Stan had already landed a job with Avis. That was fast. And according to his shirt, his Hawaiian name was Scully.